


Axis

by boomsherlocka



Series: Fics for Friends [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomsherlocka/pseuds/boomsherlocka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday gift for Rachel. She requested Sherstrade jealousy and it sort of became angsty. And long. </p><p>Greg would never deny that he had been thoroughly seduced by Sherlock from the start. It had happened the moment he had laid eyes on him, barely a man and higher than an aeroplane. After introducing himself with dramatic flourish he had thrown himself into the Thames after a murder weapon, never once stopping his frantic, near-nonsensical babble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Axis

Greg would never deny that he had been thoroughly seduced by Sherlock from the start. It had happened the moment he had laid eyes on him, barely a man and higher than an aeroplane. After introducing himself with dramatic flourish he had thrown himself into the Thames after a murder weapon, never once stopping his frantic, near-nonsensical babble.

Greg cursed when he saw the wild mop of curls disappear under the murky water and he stripped out of his coat, tossing his phone on top of it, before jumping in after the mad man. He was deceptively heavy, weighted down as he was with soaked wool. He fought against Greg until he fell unconscious and after what seemed like ages he pulled Sherlock’s limp form onto the shore, starting compressions and waving over paramedics.

Sherlock’s eyes opened first, wide and wild, and he vomited up the foul water as Greg rolled him to the side, patting his back in a feeble attempt at comfort.

“Did you get the knife?”

His voice held a rumbling threat as he sat up, gaze heavy on Greg. His pupils were still blown from whatever the fuck his drug of choice was and Greg could see his pulse thundering in his neck.

Greg’s hesitation was enough for Sherlock to scramble to his feet, clumsy like a new-born foal, and Greg stood to steady him. “Let the nice police men do their job, yeah? That’s what they are for,” Greg said, holding his hands up to indicate his was not armed, not a threat. “They’ve been trained in this sort of thing.”

“One could have never guessed,” Sherlock snarled, his tone spiked with vitriol. “The river would have swept it far out of the zone they are preparing to dredge by now.”

Greg huffed as he watched the man hug himself in a feeble attempt to ward off cold, but his lips were already turning blue. “At least they are preparing rather than just throwing themselves into the river like a lunatic. Come on, let the paramedics look you over, maybe give us both a stick that makes sure we don’t end up with the plague.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the paramedics and he shook his head. “I decline treatment. No need to give my brother any more reason to gloat.”

Greg sighed, the first sigh of many that Sherlock would draw from him over the course of their relationship, and Greg grabbed him by the arm with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “Come on then, at least let’s get you warmed up. I’ve a squad car at my disposal and you look like you could keel over at any minute.”

“I am not carrying anything illegal if you think you’re going to pin me for possession,” Sherlock drawled as he dragged a sodden leather wallet from his pocket, then flipped it open with as much grace as a hypothermic smack head could muster. It was a detective’s badge. Greg’s detective badge. Sherlock’s grin was devilish. “Unless you count this, Detective Inspector. Shiny new thing, haven’t been a DI long, have you?”

Greg snatched it away and steered Sherlock to the car. “Alright Sherlock Holmes, ‘Consulting Detective’, let’s just make sure you don’t end up an ice lolly, then we can move on to specifics, yeah?”

“Very well Gary.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “The name’s Greg.”

Sherlock heaved himself into the squad car- front seat, of course- and shrugged. Through his chattering teeth he muttered “Whatever.”

Greg sighed again and started the car, leaving the crime scene unit to their work, trying to ignore the chattering amateur detective to his left.

When they arrived at Greg’s flat his wife had silently fumed and rather noisily packed a bag and stormed out. All the while Sherlock never stopped talking, asking questions, making snide observations, sometimes spiralling off into nonsense as he struggled out of his clothes. Greg tried his best not to notice the protruding ribs, bruises and track marks, but he was trained to.

Even still he gathered up Sherlock’s clothes and tossed all of them- save the ridiculously expensive looking coat- in the wash, adding his own shirt as well. As he hung up his sodden suit he made a mental note to drop it by the drycleaner’s on the way to work in the morning.

By the time Greg returned with dry clothes and a few towels Sherlock had stoked a fire and curled up in a nest of cushions and blankets at the foot of it, fast asleep. Steam was rising from his hair as it dried. Greg tossed the clothes on the sofa with a shake of the head and decided to shower and turn in for the night. He could deal with the Sherlock problem in the morning.

* * *

 

In the end Sherlock dealt with the Sherlock problem on his own. When Greg woke up there was a not lying by his phone, and all signs of the detective’s presence were gone.

The note read:

_Checked your phone. Your team found the weapon and your murderer._

_They are still incompetent. Consider replacements._

_Your suit has been taken to be laundered, along with my coat._

_-SH_

Greg chuckled and switched on his kettle. Bloody Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

He saw neither hide nor hair of Sherlock for over three weeks after that first encounter. A nasty little part of Greg’s brain thought it might have all been a hallucination. There was no mad detective, only Greg’s overworked mind.

That was until he came home in the wee hours of the morning to find Sherlock curled into a very small ball on his sofa, arms wrapped around his shins and chin resting on his knees. “I made sure your wife wasn’t here before I broke in,” Sherlock said by way of greeting, his gaze half-lidded in the dim light.

“Not terribly smart, breaking into a Yardie’s flat,” Greg said, going to get them both a bottle of beer, which Sherlock refused with a sneer. “Sorry, I don’t have what you seem to prefer, judging by those scars on your arms,” Greg said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“I have been disgustingly sober since the night you dredged me from the Thames,” Sherlock sighed. “My brother forced me into hospital for what seems the hundredth time. “It all starts to blur in monotony after a while, I’m afraid.”

Greg sat down, finishing the first beer before starting on the second. “Who’s your brother, then? He seems to care for you a lot.”

“I’m sure you’ll have the displeasure of meeting him soon, I am sure no less than a dozen CCTV cameras tracked my progress to your flat, despite my attempts at discretion,” Sherlock replied before motioning to Greg’s bedroom. “I returned your suit. Apologies for the delay, though I must say I’ve seen homeless with finer fashion sense than you seem to possess.”

“Fuck off,” Greg snapped without any real venom and kicked off his shoes, wriggling his toes a bit until he heart a pleasant crack. “I get enough shit on my clothes it’s not worth it for me to give a lot of money for them. I’ve tossed out plenty of shirts because of stubborn blood stains.”

Sherlock stretched languidly. “Are you going to get me tea?”

“Do people usually serve you tea when you break into their flat?” Greg asked. “Because I’ve never run across that in all the cases I’ve worked.”

Sherlock hummed, stretching out on the sofa like a cat. “Can I smoke in here?” he asked. “You usually go out on the terrace to smoke, but the faint smell suggests it’s allowed.”

“I can’t stand the smell,” Greg said. “If you’re going to smoke it’s the terrace for you.”

Sherlock fell silent, his thin hand resting on his breastbone where it rose and fell with his breaths. After a moment he closed his eyes. “I have nowhere to stay. I lost my flat whilst I was away. Not that it was much of a loss, admittedly.”

Greg sighed, knowing where this particular conversation was heading. “Sherlock, mate, the wife would have a fit if you stayed here. She complains enough about me bringing my work home with me.”

Sherlock rolled his head toward Greg, eyes open again and razor sharp. “She’s cheating on you. Has been for ages. You know that, you just…what, hold out hope something will change?”

Greg’s jaw tensed and he stood, going to toss his empty beer bottles in recycling. “Right, I think this conversation is over. You saw yourself in, you can see yourself out.” He then went to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him a bit more forcefully than he originally intended.

He didn’t know when Sherlock had left, just that when he awoke the next morning the younger man was gone.

* * *

 

The texts started shortly after that.

_I need to look at cold cases, Lestrade. As many as you can get me. SH_

**I’m not getting you cold cases.**

_Terribly bored. And I could solve them for you. SH_

**You think very highly of yourself.**

_Of course I do. And so do you. SH_

**Oh fuck off.**

_Give me one. I’ll prove it to you. SH_

**You’re going to be the reason I get fired, you realize.**

_Oh ye of little faith. SH_

**Fine. One. You’ve got a week.**

_I can do it in half the time. A week is an insult to my skill. SH_

**Yeah, well, I can be a bit insulting on occasion.**

_Another fight with your wife? SH_

**That’s none of your business.**

_Oh, it’s quite serious this time. She’s left you. SH_

**I swear to god Sherlock, leave it.**

_Expect me tonight; else I’ll just break in. SH_

Greg sighed, laying his phone down before lowering his face into his hands with a long sigh. Of course. Of course Sherlock would figure that out. It was true: his wife had packed a bag to go stay with her mother while she ‘figured out what she wanted’. Greg thought it was bullshit, all of it, but he let her go. Asked her to keep him updated.

He didn’t know why he tried most of the time, really. She had cheated twice that he knew about, possibly more if he was being honest with himself, but he didn’t want to give up. They had been together so long he wasn’t sure he wanted to start all over again with someone new. He knew what to expect with Jen. Not to expect too much.

The flat had been quiet, all he had in his fridge was beer and a bottle of brown sauce, and he had fallen asleep on the sofa the last two nights. He was tired and rather lonely. Weak.

He picked up his phone.

**Right. I’ll buzz you in, berk. No need for a B &E. **

Sherlock’s reply was near instantaneous.

_Pity. SH_

* * *

 

Sherlock would never say that he moved in to Greg’s flat. And to be fair he hadn’t brought much more than a spare suit, a violin and, inexplicably, a tub of spleens. He had taken over the sofa and created a sort of nest of cold cases and the accompanying evidence.

Greg had resigned himself to his near constant presence. Even enjoyed it. He looked forward to seeing Sherlock when he got home, prodding him until he would agree to eat something. Then they would retire to the terrace and smoke a few fags in compatible silence before going back in. Greg would have a few beers while he watched Sherlock pour through the files, pale eyes narrowed in concentration as he muttered to himself.

After a few hours Greg would begin to doze off and he would go to bed, leaving Sherlock to his work.

This was the routine. Until one night Greg woke with a start, his eyes flying open to see Sherlock’s face very close to his, shadowed and eerie in the darkness. “I’ve solved them,” he said softly by way of greeting.

After Greg got his breathing back under control he groaned. “What do you want, a biscuit? Go to sleep, for god’s sake. You’ve been at it for days.”

Sherlock sighed, shifting a bit closer. “Not tired. Can’t stop thinking, Geoff.”

Greg rolled over, pulling his duvet up. “My name is Greg, you fucking idiot. Try. I’ve work in the morning.”

Sherlock grumbled but climbed under the blankets, curling up next to Greg. “You need to get me more cases.”

Greg’s response was muffled by his pillow. “Sleep, for fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock’s hand settled between Greg’s shoulder blades just as he drifted off to sleep.

When Greg’s alarm went off the next morning Sherlock was sprawled out on top of him, head resting on Greg’s chest. Greg slipped out of bed slowly, trying not to disturb Sherlock.

He was still asleep when Greg left for work.

* * *

 

It only happened once. And Greg quite often forgot that it hadn’t been a dream.

Greg had fallen asleep in his chair, having drunk too much after receiving a rather terse request from his wife to send more of her things to her mother’s. Greg hadn’t answered back, had stared at the message until the words didn’t make sense anymore, and poured himself a double scotch. Then another. Then another.

He had fallen asleep sometime between the third and fourth drink, and he woke up hours later with an aching bladder. Sherlock had let the fire die and Greg stood, his head spinning a bit. “I need a piss and a cigarette.”

Sherlock was on the terrace and he turned slightly, flicking the ashes off of his cigarette and humming to acknowledge he heard him. Greg’s steps were uncertain and he fumbled his way to the toilet, his vision spinning. He leaned against the wall, trying to regain his equilibrium as Sherlock pushed his way into the small loo with him. Before Greg could ask him what the hell he was doing Sherlock had him crowded against the wall and was kissing him fiercely. His mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and tea, and Greg was quite certain his own mouth wasn’t much more appetizing.

But Greg kissed Sherlock back as his hands slipped into his pyjama bottoms and it didn’t take long for Greg to harden in his hand. Greg’s hands were clumsy as he pulled Sherlock closer, sliding his hands down over his arse as Sherlock sped up his hand, panting against Greg’s lips.

“S…Sherlock…” Greg gasped, his hips bucking of their own volition as he came embarrassingly quickly, his knees giving out. But Sherlock held him there, licking a stripe of semen from the back of his hand before scraping his teeth over the coarse scruff along Greg’s jawline.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked softly, his lips a gentle pressure against Greg’s jugular.

Greg swallowed thickly, coming back to himself a bit as he nodded. “Yeah, fine. You?”

Sherlock pulled back, his cheeks still red and pupils blown. “I should like to have another cigarette, I think. Join me, Gerard?”

Greg chuckled, scrubbing his face in his hands. “Fuck off, you know my name.”

Sherlock waved a hand and walked back to the terrace.

Like he had always done, he followed Sherlock’s lead.

* * *

 

When Sherlock brought John Watson to the case that came to be called _A Study in Pink_ , Greg couldn’t help the deep, vicious jealousy in his gut. Sherlock introduced the man as a friend. Sherlock Holmes, a man who had no friends. His voice sounded clipped even to his own ears as he saw the pair of them, the way they worked so well together, almost as if they had been doing it their entire lives. The way that he looked at John made Greg want to put his fist through a wall, because he knew that he had lost Sherlock.

He stopped coming to Greg’s flat. Stopped texting in the middle of the night. Sherlock had moved on, upgraded to a new model that was all too perfect. A doctor and a soldier. A healer and a killer. A walking contradiction that Sherlock could never begin to solve. Of course he would be drawn to such a man.

They were instantly inseparable. Like two halves of a whole. They went off on case holidays together in bloody Dewar’s Hollow and Sherlock got snippy when Greg followed. Mycroft had asked him to keep an eye on Sherlock, but really Greg was curious to see if what everyone whispered about was true.

Was Sherlock Holmes in love?

Greg had never diluted himself into thinking that Sherlock was in love with him. The idea of it was absurd. Sherlock recognized him as a useful tool and used him accordingly. And Greg had been fine with that, not believing Sherlock capable of true affection.

Until he saw the way Sherlock’s gaze softened when he watched John when the other man was unaware. Then Greg knew that Sherlock had a great heart capable of overwhelming depths of emotion.

Greg knew that Sherlock cared about him, sure, but he _loved_ John. Loved the man more than he had ever managed to love himself. When John came into the picture everything changed. It may not have been for the better for Greg, but it was for Sherlock. And that was what mattered.

When Sherlock died, Greg’s world stopped. He couldn’t talk to John, couldn’t bear witness to John’s grief. John cut himself off from the rest of the world, throwing himself into his work. Greg did the same, ignoring Anderson and Donovan the best he could. When everything came out, finally, and it was proven that Sherlock had not been a fraud and Moriarty was behind everything, they were both apologetic. Greg could work with them, but he wasn’t sure he could forgive them.

He started smoking again. Stopped sleeping regularly. Shaved his head, considered buying a motorbike. Sherlock would have said he was having a midlife crisis, and Greg probably wouldn’t disagree with him.

When Sherlock came back to life, Greg wanted to kill him. Even still, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling him into a tight hug, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck as he held him. Sherlock was stiff in his arms until he tentatively patted Greg’s back. With that Greg chuckled, pulling back to look into Sherlock’s face. “You’ve told John, right?” he asked, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“I plan to this evening,” Sherlock said with a slow grin. “I’ve a surprise in store.”

Greg sighed, shaking his head. “He’s going to break your nose.”

“Ridiculous.”

“He will.”

Sherlock scoffed. “He won’t. He’s going to be very pleased to see me. Perhaps not an overenthusiastic hug, but John and I don’t have a sexual history.”

“Oh fuck off,” Greg sighed, putting out his cigarette. He didn’t feel the need for one anymore. “You text me then, when you need company at the A&E.”

Sherlock hummed, shaking his head a bit. “I must go, Gareth. Mrs Hudson is next.”

Greg chuckled. “It’s Greg, for the millionth time. Right, I should go back to work. Glad you’re back, you arse.”

Sherlock grinned slightly and disappeared as quickly as he had come. Greg took a deep breath, shaking his head. He pinched the back of his hand. Ah, not dreaming.

Greg’s world started turning again.

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Greg had imbibed as much as he did at John's wedding. His stomach was twisted in knots as he tried not to look at Sherlock as he sat there next to John. He was folding and unfolding his napkin as John and Mary chatted with guests, laughing and holding hands and kissing occasionally. Most people wouldn’t have noticed how lost Sherlock looked there in the midst of all the joyous people.

He was lost until he was presented with a case.

It was a suitable distraction until the end of the evening, when he was called upon to play the song he had composed for John and Mary. Greg watched them dance, Mary with tears in her eyes and John with a smile that shone brighter than the ridiculous disco ball that hung from the ceiling. Greg knew the song was just for John, only for John, and his heart ached for Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson was the first to ask for a dance from Greg, then one of the bridesmaids and then a random older woman who Greg didn’t know. By the time he could get away for a breather Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Greg sighed, gathered his coat, bid John and Mary congratulations and good night and decided to retire for the evening. He pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a text asking after him, but didn’t receive a response.

When he got back to his flat Greg was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed. He fumbled with his keys a bit before he unlocked the door, and he froze when he saw a fire going and a huddled figure on the sofa.

It was Sherlock, his legs drawn in and his arms wrapped around them tightly. His chin was resting on the points of his knees, his eyes shining unearthly bright in the firelight. He was crying silently, his only acknowledgement of Greg’s presence a slow blink and tension in his jaw.

Greg closed the door to his flat and shrugged out of his coat and uncomfortable dress shoes, giving Sherlock the opportunity to speak if he wanted. He went to sit in his usual chair, stretching out his legs with a sigh.

“It wasn’t enough,” Sherlock finally said softly, his voice rough. “It was never going to be enough.”

“It’s enough,” Greg argued gently. “You saved his life, and mine, and Mrs Hudson’s. You sacrificed your own happiness and your reputation to ensure his happiness. You did all you could.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. “How can you stand feeling like this? How do you get out of bed in the morning, knowing… you cannot have the one thing in the world that gives your life purpose?”

Greg sank down in his chair a bit, trying to suppress the hurt the question caused. “You think rather highly of yourself, you know that?”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. After a moment he settled down on the sofa, still curled into a ball. Greg watched over him for a bit before he stood to fetch a blanket, covering Sherlock before banking the fire. He went to his own bedroom, shed his suit and went to the loo to brush his teeth and use the toilet.

He was asleep within minutes after climbing into bed, only to be woken a few hours later when he felt someone slip into bed with him, curling around him. Sherlock. “Go back to sleep, Greg,” Sherlock whispered against the back of his neck.

Greg smiled as he drifted back to sleep, feeling Sherlock’s heartbeat against his shoulder blade.

When he woke up the next morning Sherlock was on top of him, head resting on his chest. Greg grinned and rested a hand on the younger man’s back.

The rest of the world could wait.

 


End file.
